Fight at the Fête
by LilyValleyVeil
Summary: Response to a prompt from the MassKink Meme. Shepard. The Illusive Man. A diplomatic event, a lovely buffet, and a slew of party crashers. They drink! They fight! They discuss hors d'oeuvres!
1. Foreword

Note: This story was written in response to this prompt over at the MassKink Meme:

_Post-Reapers - Paragon femShep is attending a political event when the party gets crashed by an army(of mercenaries, remaining Reaper-indoctrinees, whatever). Most of the civilians manage to get to safety, but femShep ends up getting trapped in the complex with one of the attending politicians - who she quickly recognizes as the Illusive Man. (Note, he is not attending *as* the Illusive Man. He is going by his real name, as being the Illusive Man is his secret identity) _

_Paragon that she is, she can't just leave him to die, so she drags him along as she seeks to escape/fight her way out. _

_BONUS: If TIM turns out to be surprisingly competent with weapons, and the more hands-on aspects of fighting._

_BONUS: If TIM is such a dry-witted, sarcastic Magnificant Bastard about the entire situation that Shepard is left torn between the urge to applaud him, or punch him in the face._

It's mostly rated M for language. And fighting. And the tragedy of spilled finger foods.


	2. Fight at the Fête

Shepard stood on the balcony, taking a break from the diplomatic function she'd been coerced into attending, which she supposed was a diplomat's job: talking people into doing things they didn't want to do. She preferred to make people do things they didn't want to do by pointing big guns at them, but she supposed diplomacy had its place. And, if she had to admit it—which she didn't—she was, after all, a woman who occasionally relished the rare chance to dress up and step out.

The Presidium was lovely at "night," with the dark waters reflecting the fairy lights strung in the reception hall. Drink in hand, she'd found a corner of the balcony mercifully free of people, listening to the buzz of conversations behind her. She figured half were about dire political machinations, a quarter were attempts to get other parties into bed, most probably for the purpose of dire political machinations, and the last quarter were speculation about her, her return from the Great Beyond (which really wasn't so great as far as she was concerned), her connections to Cerberus, and, of course, the endless whispers about her round trip through the Omega-4 relay.

Nobody really knew what had happened, but that didn't stop them from talking about it anyway. And she realized she'd been issued this invitation-slash-command from Anderson (although she knew, just knew, that little weasel Udina was behind it) to quell the rumors that she was completely beyond Citadel control. Her restoration to Spectre status had allayed a few fears, but she really couldn't bring herself to care about the politics involved. And never would, she thought, because one thing the politicians just did not seem to grasp was that she _was_ beyond their control.

She wasn't out of control, she mused—she just wouldn't be used for any ends other than her own. And for just a minute, with the lights dancing on the water and the champagne—god, she had a weakness for the stuff!—bubbling through her bloodstream, she took a moment to wonder exactly what those ends were.

She wanted to end the Reaper threat, of course, for reasons both personal and practical. For Ashley, for the colonists, for all the lost. Also because they were going to eat all organic life in the galaxy plus whatever synthetics didn't worship them. She wanted to keep her crew alive, because they were good people, because they'd stood by her and pledged her loyalty.

She wanted to see herself as a good woman, which surprised her a bit. She was a hardass when she needed to be, and that was a point of pride—her time with the gangs had given her a disdain for weakness she didn't think she'd ever really be rid of—but she'd learned that kind words and good deeds were satisfying in and of themselves, and negotiating really did lessen the amount of ammo she went through. Her life had been one fight after another, and while she supposed that was just what she was made for, she wanted to figure out, at least a little, what she was beyond that.

And she wanted a lover.

She thought of Kaiden, then, and figured she'd earned the right and had enough champagne to indulge in a little melancholy. Besides, she was perfectly aware of the figure she cut there on the balcony; the lone woman looking wistfully across the water, thinking of The Love She Left Behind. Although, at the moment, she pretty much wanted to kick The Love She Left Behind in the nuts so hard he could wear his balls for earrings, given what he'd said to her on Horizon. But that wasn't necessarily the important thing at the moment.

What was important was the chance to dress up in a pretty thing that showed her figure to its best advantage—a navy gown of some heavy silk, with a deep vee in front that showed her perfect skin and just a little bit of the curve of her breasts.

Also, it had sequins, and this secretly pleased her to no end.

It was kind of a bitch to move in, given that she had to slow her usual stride due to the ridiculous shoes she was wearing (but they also had sequins, and they did make her legs look very long. Plus they made her very tall, and it gave her a kind of tiny satisfaction to tower over Udina and most of the other unctuous politicians and diplomats).

She'd noticed another rather tall figure in the room, too. Hadn't caught a glimpse of his face, but the way he moved was intriguing, and, from the back at least, he looked very good. She didn't know dick about fashion, but she could tell his suit was quite expensive and most likely tailor-made, given the ease with which he wore it and the fact that the tailoring almost entirely hid the fact that he was wearing a shoulder-holster and packing some serious heat. She figured most of the people at the party had missed that.

And although it was unfortunate that even with expert tailoring her gown gave her no good place to hide a pistol, she'd found at least seven places perfect for concealing knives, which made her very happy. She'd not forgotten what she learned while running with the Reds, and she was just as good with a blade as she'd ever been.

Which was all to the good, considering that there was suddenly a large explosion, a great deal of screaming, and a moderate amount of gunfire behind her. Silently, she closed her eyes and took a minute to wonder exactly why her presence at any given event seemed to ensure explosions, screaming, and gunfire before turning around, pulling a knife, and taking stock of the situation.

The C-Sec guards who, moments before, had looked so bored they were on the verge of throwing themselves into the canal were swinging into action very efficiently. They'd moved to protect the civilians, and Anderson, bless him, was helping move the crowd out.

But the attackers had caught the party by surprise, and there were bodies on the floor. She took note of the fact that all the dead save two were aliens—several asari, two turians, and a volus whose pressure suit had been breached. Then she heard the cry of "Earth First!" and groaned. Those fuckers? Not much cover, here, but she turned a pretty solid buffet table on its side, settled into a combat crouch, and popped up quickly to get the lay of the land. She took aim at one of the Earth Firsters trying to shoot the retreating civilians—not even wearing armor, the idiot!—and threw the knife. It landed quite solidly in his throat.

Then a second wave of attackers came in, and they looked like veteran mercenaries. The goddamn idiots were evidently well-funded goddamn idiots, and Shepard sighed; the fight had just gotten a lot more complicated. The man she'd noticed before vaulted over the table—very smoothly, she noticed, with a veteran's practiced eye—and took cover with her. His head turned and she saw his face for the first time that night, but not the first time ever by a long shot: the fucking Illusive Man, in the flesh.

Okay. The fight had just gotten a whole lot more complicated.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" she said in a furious whisper. "Are you part of this? Are you paying these Earth First morons?"

He looked at her with actual hurt in his eyes—his creepy, creepy eyes. "Shepard. You really think I'd play the game this sloppily? This sets humanity back, not advances our interests."

"But we've got more important things to discuss at the moment," he said. "For example, why you decided to destroy the Collector base against my wishes."

Her jaw dropped. "Civilians are dying out there and you want to talk about that? Now? I'll be goddamn if I will. You help me get this room cleared and these idiots dead, and I'll give you fifteen minutes when we're done."

"Half an hour," he said, with a faint smile touching his lips.

"You son of a bitch," she said. "If you're behind this, your thirty minutes is going to turn into thirty seconds, which is exactly the time it'll take me to fillet you."

Another ghost of a smile. "Oh, no, this isn't my play. I'm just…taking full advantage of the combination of the situation and your nature. Now, shall we?"

"Fine. What's the plan?"

He stood up, aimed, and shot three times. Shepard heard three bodies hit the floor.

A hail of gunfire hit the table, which was unfortunately in the center of the buffet that lined the back of the room. She heard it start to splinter.

"You break left, I'll break right. We take position behind the tables at the far ends, and catch them in the crossfire."

"Flaw in the plan, idiot: I don't have a gun."

"Well, that's hardly my fault, is it?" he said, smiling.

Shepard had to fight the urge to strangle him.

"All right, then," he said. "I'll start moving right, using the tables for cover as long as they hold up, and unfortunately spilling this most excellent buffet—did you get a chance to try the gougères?"

He stood up again, took aim, shot twice, and two more bodies hit the floor.

"Because they're currently all over the floor. And since the Kir was beside them, it's a very sad sight."

Shepard heard a scream, a slip, a tremendous "thud," and the Illusive Man popped up again. "Although it's rather fortuitous that these idiots aren't watching where they're stepping." One more shot, a ragged moan, and the death-rattle of a dying man.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she said, incredulous.

"The finer things in life, my dear Commander." He paused a moment, running his eyes over Shepard and her gown. "Which include you, at the moment. Lovely dress, by the way."

"Fuck the dress!" she snarled. "What's the goddamn plan?"

She heard a C-Sec officer yell, "All right, civilians are clear!"

"As I said," he continued, with that infuriating calmness, "I move to the right, overturning tables as I go, providing both a distraction and cover fire, while you enter the fray with the your knives, your formidable biotics, and the element of surprise."

"Works for me," she said. "Let's go."

"One moment." He took the knife strapped to her calf and slit her dress from hip to ankle before she could react. "There. Much better."

"You're paying for that," she said, then vaulted into the fight.

Chaos. She estimated close to forty mercenaries, all armed and armored, plus twenty or so Earth Firsters, and about twenty C-Sec officers. Not good odds…but she'd faced worse. She came up behind one of the mercenaries, fisted her hand in his hair, yanked his head back, and slit his throat in one smooth motion. God, but it felt good to fight with a blade.

And she'd gotten their attention. She heard the crash of a table overturning, felt the passage of two shots, and two more men fell. Whatever else the Illusive Man might be, she thought, he was a hell of a marksman.

She watched three Firsters move warily toward her. They were armed, but before they could fire, she heard a shot and one fell. She crouched, swept one leg out, and another man crashed to the ground. She drew another knife; she'd always been better as a two-fisted fighter and, striking like a snake, crossed the blades across the man's throat like a scissors and opened up his arteries. Hot blood hit her face, her chest, and her dress. That took care of two, and a nice shot from a C-Sec officer removed the third from consideration.

She stood and threw a shockwave that knocked at least seven mercenaries flying; three more shots from behind one more overturned table—she did enjoy the sound of shattering china—and three more dead guys. Advancing on the four stunned ones, she called back to the Illusive Man, "And just what the fuck is a gougère anyhow?"

"It's a pastry from the Burgundy region of France—"another table overturned, two more shots—"usually made with Gruyère, considered the king of Swiss cheeses. Although I believe these were made with aged Parmesan instead—inferior, but acceptable."

"Oh, you mean the little cheese puffy things? Those were pretty good."

She could practically feel his eyes rolling. "Yes, the little cheese puffy things. On your right, by the way."

Her barrier crackled into life just in time to keep her from taking a lethal shot. Still hurt like a bitch, though. She tucked, rolled, and came up between two of the men she'd stunned with the shockwave. Two quick thrusts, and two more dead men. The other mercenaries—the ones at the very end of the shockwave—had been propelled headfirst into the wall and lay limp, their necks broken.

"In case you're wondering," the Illusive Man said, rising up righteous and bringing down another mercenary who'd come up in Shepard's blind spot, "gougères are traditionally served with Kir, a cocktail made from mixing the Burgundian 'aligoté' white wines with cassis."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking about," she snapped, advancing on an Earth Firster whose hands were trembling so badly he could hardly hold his gun. She took mercy and brought him down with a hard hit to the solar plexus and a right cross to the jaw. Down he went, a perfect KO.

She darted behind a champagne fountain and assessed the situation again. Most of the mercs and Firsters were down, but so were some of the C-Sec officers. Two mercenaries were advancing on a C-Sec man who'd taken cover behind the bar.

"And since I know you're just dying to tell me," she called, nimbly navigating the floor full of dead bodies, spilled liquor, and by-now-completely unappetizing appetizers, "what the fuck is cassis?"

"So glad you asked," he said. "It's a sweet, black-currant flavored liqueur."

"Good stuff, especially with the little cheese puffy things," she said.

"Now you're just playing the rube," he said, actually sounding pained. Nearing the end of the buffet, he broke cover and took down one of the men moving to flank the officer behind the bar. Three quick flashes as her knives caught the light from the chandeliers, and the other merc went down.

The C-Sec officer came up from behind the bar, and both Shepard and the Illusive Man leaned back on it, surveying the room. More C-Sec officers were pouring in, along with medics. The few mercenaries and Firsters left alive were being herded—none too gently—toward the waiting secure shuttles, restraints around their wrists.

"Um, I don't know about you guys," said the officer behind them, "but I could really use a drink."

"Scotch, please, on the rocks," said the Illusive Man.

The officer poured it with a shaking hand, then decided to take a swig right from the bottle. "Good man," said Shepard. "Guess that one's yours now," said the Illusive Man, with an expression of distaste. Thoughtfully, the officer contemplated the bottle and said, "Yup," then walked away toward one of the lieutenants in the room.

"I think the situation is well in hand," the Illusive Man said. "And you now owe me thirty minutes."

He grabbed a bottle of champagne and an unbroken flute from behind the bar, then settled his hand on the small of Shepard's back and guided her neatly to one of the tables in a far corner of the balcony. They sat silently for a moment, observing the cleanup; one of the officers approached them and said, cautiously, "Are you two all right?"

Shepard looked down at her blood-spattered dress. "Oh, none of it's mine," she chirped, booze and blood singing in her veins, riding an adrenaline high.

"I believe you're wrong there," the Illusive Man said, turning her arm over gently. There was a long slash along her forearm, bleeding sluggishly.

"Crap! Must have been all the glass that somebody kept breaking," Shepard said, with a pointed look at the Illusive Man, who took a swig of his scotch and smiled.

"Nasty-looking, but not too deep," the officer said. "Come with me and we'll get that taken care of."

"Actually, if you could just bring us the necessary supplies, we can manage," the Illusive Man said. The officer looked unsure, but not disposed to argue. "Well, okay," he said, moving off slowly, then coming back with medigel and bandages. "You'll have to give statements," he said, authority returning to his voice.

"Come back in half an hour and we'll be happy to do so." The Illusive Man's pleasantly deep voice held a subtle threat, and the officer retreated.

Out on the balcony, it was actually fairly quiet. The tiny twinkling lights had somehow made it through unscathed, and their reflections danced on the water. Moving with practiced ease, not breaking the silence, the Illusive Man closed Shepard's wound.

"There," he said, with satisfaction, wiping his hands on a nearby napkin. "May I pour you a drink?"

"Sure, what the hell," she said. A little shocked, but mostly bemused, she watched the Illusive Man open the champagne, smiling as she heard the sound of the cork splashing into the reservoir—he'd done that on purpose, she was sure, just to amuse her—and pour her a generous measure.

She looked at the flute, then took the bottle, brought the neck to her lips, and took a deep drink. "I love this stuff," she said, grinning.

The Illusive Man sighed deeply. "By the way," he said, "my name here is Alexander."

"Is that your real name?" Shepard said.

He didn't even reply, just looked at her with one eyebrow raised.

She took another swig. "Yeah, didn't think so. Anyhow, clock's ticking. Say what you have to say so I can get the hell out of here."

"Cassis," he said, reaching out and running one finger along her collarbone from her shoulder to her neck, then down toward her breasts, "is almost exactly this color." He held up his finger, the blood dark red in the dim light.

Shepard rolled her eyes. "And what's that got to do with anything?" She thought for a moment and said, "By the way, lay a finger on me again and you'll lose it."

He wiped his finger neatly. "If you say so," he said, his voice level.

"What this has to do with anything," he said, mimicking her inflection, "is that you, like cassis, like aligoté wine, like those gougères and that couture gown, are rare and exquisite. And even beyond that, you are actually singular and priceless."

"Oh, I'm pretty goddamn sure I know exactly what I cost," she said.

He waved his hand. "Figure of speech, Shepard. That's why I decided, after long consideration, not to have you killed."

She bared her teeth in a savage grin. "You're always welcome to try, asshole."

"Please," he said. "There's no need for that. I was angry—with good reason, I might add."

She snorted. "Good reason, my ass. That thing was a horror show, and anything we got from it would have been twisted, tainted, and evil."

"Evil?" he said. "What an interesting notion. What do you define as evil, Shepard?"

"I'm not interested in the philosophical bullshit," she said. "Evil's pretty goddamn simple. It's whatever hurts more than it helps. It's the bodies of thousands of colonists—human colonists, the ones you're so interested in protecting—turned into some kind of goddamn…DNA soup to build a monster. It's the Protheans turned into Collectors, turned into slaves."

"Cerberus isn't humanity," she said. "It's about a hundred and fifty operatives running about twelve operations. It's exceptionally well funded. It is a force with which to be reckoned…but it isn't humanity." She finished her speech with a long drink from the bottle.

The Illusive Man looked shocked for a moment, then relaxed. "Ah. Information from the recently unshackled EDI, I imagine."

She set down the bottle and toasted him with the flute. "You, sir, are correct," she said.

"As I said," he continued, "I was most displeased. However, when we brought you back, I insisted that you be brought back exactly as you were. My mistake. Somehow I imagined that you'd be more grateful, and thus biddable."

"Grateful?" she said, voice rising. "I didn't ask to be brought back; a handful of people who love to play God and treat the world like their own personal chessboard decided it was a good idea."

"Do you play, by the way?" he said. "I think I'd like to sit down to a game with you."

"Yeah, I play," she said. "And I'm damn good."

"Of course you are. You can't hide your intelligence, but you keep the extent of it hidden. Good tactic; let your enemies underestimate you. Unfortunately for you, we know exactly how brilliant you are."

She leveled her gaze at him. "Are you my enemy…Alexander?"

"I am not your enemy," he said. "I don't think you'll ever be my friend—"

"Got that right," she said.

"—but whatever you think, I am not your enemy. You are still humanity's best hope. And, in an odd way, I admire your convictions and your conscience. Having been born almost entirely without one, it's interesting to watch someone so devoted to hers."

"For someone who's as vocal as you are about your dedication to humanity, you don't seem particularly bothered by your complete lack of it," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Is conscience synonymous with humanity? Is it an indispensable element? And think carefully about the course of human history before you answer."

"It is to me," she said, her voice cool and full of absolute finality.

"My lack of conscience is simply a fact, Commander. It ceased to trouble me long ago. Not that it ever troubled me much." He sat back in his seat and looked at her, long and thoughtfully. "I've entertained the thought, now and then, that you've been brought back to be my conscience."

"But that's just a flight of fancy," he said, looking out at the reservoir, then looking back at her. He saw reflections from the water on her skin; her great dark eyes regarded him steadily. "Isn't it?"

Something passed between them then; some spark, some understanding, between the woman with the great heart and roaring passions and the cool, calculating man whose eyes she met across the table.

"Alexander's empire fell," she said. "Even I know that much."

"But it changed the world forever, nonetheless," he said.

"I think your time is up."

"I suppose it is." He rose and came around the table to pull back her chair. She stumbled on the hem of her dress and fell forward, had a brief moment to consider the fact that she'd just literally fallen into the Illusive Man's arms, and then his hands came up to rest on her shoulders and he pressed a kiss to her lips.

After a moment of shock, she returned it. Then she kicked him in the shin, grabbed the champagne from the table and toasted him with it again. "You, sir, are a magnificent bastard."

He grinned. "A lovely end to a lovely evening, except for the bruise I'm sure I'll have tomorrow."

"You're lucky I didn't do worse," she said, but she was smiling. "Of course, you realize this changes nothing."

"The thought never crossed my mind," he said, wryly. "But I have curiosity instead of a conscience, Commander. Thank you for satisfying mine for a moment."

"Right," she said, eyeing him coolly. "I'll be going back to my ship now."

He laughed briefly. "Technically, it still belongs to Cerberus. In practice, though, and like everything else, it's yours," he said.

"It always was," she said, and grinned.

He watched her leave, her gait a little unsteady, and called "Thank you for the compliment, by the way," to her retreating figure. Her back still to him, still walking away, she raised one hand in a wave, then gave him the finger.

He laughed, then sat and thought in silence for a long time.


End file.
